**Just Try**
The Whitaker family lived in a concrete-block flat on the outskirts of Birmingham. The father, James, had been made redundant from the factory and now drove lorries, spending months away on the road. His wife, Margaret, worked two jobscashier by day, office cleaner by night.
Their eldest, 22-year-old Emily, was the familys pride. Serious beyond her years, shed gone straight from secondary school to a local college for accounting, eager to earn and help her parents. Their lives revolved around one goal: getting her younger brother, Thomas, into university. Hed shown promise in maths early on, and theyd pinned all their hopes on himtheir ticket to a better life.
Emily worked part-time for a small-business owner, but late at night, when the flat fell quiet, shed open her battered second-hand laptop and write. Gentle, aching stories about people who dreamed, loved, and searched for their place in the world. It was her escape from the grind.
One day, her old schoolmateher only loyal readerconvinced her to submit a story to a writing competition. To her shock, Emily won. The prize was a modest sum and an internship at a regional newspaper in Manchester.
She decided to tell her parents over dinner, while Thomas was upstairs doing homework.
Mum, Dad, she began, pushing her plate of spaghetti aside. Ive been offered an internship. At the *Manchester Courier*. Its a chance.
James frowned, rubbing his tired face. What dyou mean, *Courier*? Youve got steady work at Mr. Thompsons firm.
Its different, Dad. Ive been writing stories. They noticed me.
Margaret stopped washing up. She turned, drying her hands on her apron.
Stories? Her voice was thick with disbelief. Emily, when did you even find time? You need sleepyouve got work! And Thomas needs help with his maths!
I know. But this is *my* chance! Emilys voice wavered. To do something I love. Just to try!
Love? James stood, his shadow falling over her. Wholl put food on the table, then? You think Im in that lorry for fun? You think your mum scrubs floors for joy? No. Its duty. And here you are, chasing dreams while Thomas still needs tutors!
Its not just a dream! Emily shot up. Why does Thomas get to aim for Oxford, but I cant want the *Courier*?
Because hes the son! James barked. Hell provide! Your job is to marry well and not shame us! Filling your head with fairy tales instead of finding a husband!
The words stung worse than any slap. Emily stepped back, staring at their weary, bitter faces. They didnt see *her*just a prop for their plans. Arguing was pointless.
Fine, she whispered.
Next morning, she left almost all her prize money on the kitchen table with a note: *For Thomass tutors*. She took a rucksack with her laptop, spare clothes, and printed stories.
The internship was unpaidthe papers way of vetting new writers. Churning out articles wasnt as thrilling as her fiction, and journalism was less creative paradise, more relentless grind. But Emily loved it: the people, the buzz, seeing life from new angles.
Manchester was expensive. She rented a bunk in a hostel near work and waitressed nights. Days were interviews, edits, deadlines; evenings, greasy spoons and exhaustion. She lived on tea and toast, permanently sleep-deprived.
One night, Margaret called, voice ragged.
Em Dads in hospital. His heart. They say its the stressover you. Are you even eating?
Emily eyed her stale sandwich. Guilt twisted her chest.
Im fine, Mum, she lied. Hows Thomas?
Struggling. Misses you. His grades are slipping
Hell manage. Tell him I said hi. And Dad tell him Ill visit soon.
She didnt. Instead, she sent half her meagre wages home, keeping just enough to scrape by. It was hard, but for the first time, she was free. Stories buzzed in her head; she wrote nightly. One got published in a youth lit mag. They paid peanuts, but seeing her name in print, she wept by the newsstand.
Six months later, the paper hired her. She moved into a tiny bedsit with a leaky ceiling and felt like the luckiest woman alive.
Then Thomas showed up. Taller, scowling.
Sis, he said, not stepping inside. Im not going to uni.
Emily froze.
What? But you
Culinary college. To cook. Mum and Dad are losing it. His voice turned bitter. Know why? Ive *always* hated maths. Wanted to be a chef. But till you left, I was too scared to say it.
He walked off. In that moment, Emily realised her escape hadnt just saved herit gave Thomas the courage to rebel.
***
A year later, a letter came from James. Pencil on lined paper.
*Lass. Mum says youre in the papers now. Saw your name in some magazine at a motorway cafe. Told the lads you were mine. They didnt believe me. Stay strong. Miss you. Dad.*
Emily read it a dozen times. It wasnt forgiveness. It was acknowledgment. Proof she existed. That her voice mattered.
She stepped onto her damp balcony. Rain fell. The roof leaked, neighbours argued, but as she watched the wet rooftops of her new city, she knewthis life, with all its lack and guilt, was *hers*. No longer just a prop or a duty. She was Emily. Writer. Author of her own story. And that was everything.
